Let me tell you a story

edited August 2011 in Spurious Generalities
Mods, you can move this to BLTC if you want...I just like SG, and since it's not specifically drug-related, I figured I'd post it here.

Our story begins one midsummer's night, around this time, actually, two years ago. I had graduated 10th grade in June and my time was split between lifeguarding at the local Y and indulging in various psychoactive drugs. It was this one special night, though, that I will never forget. It lives forever in my memory, and now that I'm about to tell you, it will live in your memory, too.

I was sleeping over at a friend's house whose parents were away and we had just finished a relatively successful little banger. Instead of cleaning up right away, we decided to clear our minds by going for a midnight stroll. We left our humble abode at 12:00 AM exactly and snaked our way through suburban neighborhoods until we reached the main street of our little town, still feeling heavily the effects of the marijuana we had consumed earlier that evening.

There weren't many people out--in fact, the streets were practically empty. It was when we passed by an Irish pub that the night grew exponentially in adventure. The door swung open and three large drunken Irish men stumbled out, filled with cocksure bravado and alcohol. We walked past them as my friend was telling a joke, and I giggled. The men seemed to take notice and began to follow us for a block until one of them, the largest, and wearer of mutton chops, called out to us. Confused, and a little bit frightened, we both turned around.

"Oi!" he shouted. "You two! C'mere a bit!"

Playing it cool, I walked up to him, and in my most sober voice, answered, "Can I help you guys?"

"You're high as fuck, ain't ya?" he asked.

I glanced at my friend, who remained stonefaced, but I couldn't hold back the smile that began to creep across my face. I burst into laughter.

We got to talking to this group of friendly Irishmen about life, and grew fond of them. They invited us back to their house, where they offered to smoke us up, and promised to show us "something that would really peak our interest." How could we refuse?

We entered the doors of a cookie-cutter home to a billow of marijuana smoke. A man sat on a couch inside taking hits from a bong and snapping his fingers to a techno song. That was the first thing I noticed. The second thing I noticed was that there was what looked like a miniature hippo, covered in fur, sitting on the man's lap.

We had a seat on the couch, and I picked up the minihippo creature from this man, and stared into its eyes, unbelieving at what I was seeing. Our large Irish friend noticed and laughed. "It's a mini-hippo. A friend of mine genetically manufactures them and sells them as pets. C'mere."

We got up and walked into a bathroom. The Irishman pointed to the tub. Unsure of what was going to happen next, we carefully peered down into it.

The tub was full of miniature hippos, a half dozen, swimming in water. One brayed and I jumped back in surprise and disgust.

"I'll sell one to you for 80 dollars," said the Irishman. My friend and I both shook our heads; we had no money on us. We walked back to the living room and took our seat again on the couch. The Irishman opened a drawer and removed 2 rolls of LSD blotter paper.

"I guess you got no cash for these, either?" He asked, as he put two into his mouth.

"No," we answered.

We got to talking to the men again, and smoked a few bowls with them in their house. After we had been there for about an hour, the Irishman picked up the minihippo on the couch and started petting it. It peed on him.

"Bloody fuck!" He cried, jumping from his chair. He threw it to the floor. "You fucking bastard hippo! You pissed on me! You foul demon! You're going back to the underworld!" He picked it up and we followed him to the bathroom, where he threw it in the tub with the other hippos. The Irishman ordered us out of the bathroom because he had to take a piss.

We got lost on the way back to the living room, and wandered into a dark room with a dining table in the middle. Turning on the lights, we saw, to our amazement, that the table was stacked with bricks of marijuana on one end, and what looked like cocaine on the other. We left the room in stunned silence, bid our adieus to the man on the couch, and walked out of the house.

Three weeks later, I called the number that the Irishman had given me. He picked up on the second ring and in a strained voice, told us to come over, but not to call him again.

We found the house again with some difficulty, and as we opened the door, we were again greeted by a storm of marijuana smoke. The man on the couch was smoking a bong again, and the two other Irishmen were sitting in their respective chairs. It was like nothing had changed since last time. We heard a call from the kitchen and walked in to find our mutton-chopped friend in an apron, chef's hat, and oven mitts.

"Boys! Good to see yeh! The hash is just about done!"

He opened the oven door, pulled out a tray of brown blocks of hashish, and set it on the table. In five minutes we broke off some pieces and helped ourselves to consuming them.

"I've got some bad news, boys. I've not been in a good state. Them pigs are onto me. I'm afraid I can't let you in no more."

He explained to us the fears he was having, about tapped phones, strange cars parked outside his house, and men who were following him around everywhere. There was nothing special about this second visit--we never saw a mini-hippo and just sat around talking and smoking--but it would indeed be the last time we saw the man. Another two weeks later, we walked past his house and decided to visit our friend to see how he was doing. No answer. We tried calling his phone but an automated voice told us that the number was no longer in service.

We returned to the house multiple times over the next month, each time finding it empty. We decided that our friend had moved away, since we hadn't seen any news stories about drug busts on large Irishmen.

I'll never forget our friend, the mutton-chopped Irishman, or his pet miniature hippos.

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